


Dust Town Dog

by FeoplePeel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Nobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: The first time Hawke accepted an invitation hadn't been intentional.





	Dust Town Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alamorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/gifts).



> Unfortunately, no Hawke/Varric exchange this year :sad face: So alamorn and I decided to throw prompts at one another as though we were paired anyway! This is for her prompt:  
> Hawke chooses which companion to take to parties based on how much of a fuss she wants to make. Bonus points for Varric and Hawke making fun of the other guests while dancing romantically around the room.

Hawke slid her knife under the seal of a large envelope, examined its contents, and threw it on her mother’s growing stack of letters with a flip of her wrist.

“Another party invitation, Mother,” Hawke shouted over her shoulder, leaning back in her chair to reach for the next envelope.

Leandra exited the kitchen, loaded down with a tray of some sweet-smelling bread. She set it on the edge of Sandal’s workstation and wiped her hands down the front of her dress. “What do you want me to do with them? They’re not for me, they’re for you.”

“I’m not a member of society,” Hawke laughed.

“You’re descended from nobility, and rich to boot.” Leandra picked up one of the invitations and read it to herself. “Likely richer than the Amells were.”

“A Ferelden farmer with a vault of gold is still a Ferelden farmer.”

“Dear, I don’t believe you ever farmed.” Leandra said, distracted.

Hawke smiled. “Mercenary, then.”

“I used to go to these all the time.” Her mother placed the invitation back in its proper place and straightened the stack. “How I met your father, in fact.”

Hawke set aside whatever bill or well-wish she held to focus on her mother. "I heard him tell the story, once or twice, but never your side of it.”

“No?” Leandra perched on the couch a few feet away, looking wistful. “My version is more romantic."

* * *

Leandra had a dress commissioned before she died.

Hawke did not know if it was made for her, for her mother, for old times sake, but it was made; waiting for her when she arrived back from the lair of her mother’s killer. Hawke took one look at the folded sheets of fabric in Orana’s arms, pushed past her to the kitchen--stopping only long enough to nab the cheap cooking sherry--and left the house again through the side door.

It was a long, unsteady walk back to Gamlen’s old, now abandoned shack. She sat in the center of it, a new bottle from a friendly, very drunk dwarf balanced on one leg.

“Hawke, open the door.”

“Go away,” Hawke registered Varric’s voice. Welcomed it even! Well, half of her brain. The other half forced herself to continue, “Hawke isn’t here.”

“Well, I miss her so I’m going to talk to to you, a door that sounds amazingly like a very sloshed Hawke.” She could hear Varric slide into a sit against the wood on the other side. “That all right?”

“...Fine.” Hawke moved to the door, dragging her bottle with her, and slammed her back against it. She heard an _oof_ of protest as the wood shook, then silence for a while.

"I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to bury her here,” she said when she felt like she could speak. “With this family.”

“We can send her body back to Ferelden,” Varric suggested. “Hell, I’d pay for it.”

“Where? To Lothering?” Hawke’s laugh felt as bitter as it sounded. “Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“I understand, Hawke, you don’t have to say anything.”

“Thanks, Varric.” She tried to stand, to open the door. Mostly she flopped at the handle until Varric got the message and opened it from the other side.

She fell, head bouncing against the ground outside once before Varric caught it, passing a hand through her hair, his fingers settling at the base of her skull. He laughed, and it sounded mildly disbelieving.

“Shit, Hawke who gave you Dust Town Dog?”

“Bem..bop? The very kindly dwarf with the ever present odour of fish about his personage.”

“Bomrick?” He dragged her upright, looping her arm around his shoulders. “Well...let's go make sure he hasn't drowned first. Then we'll take care of the rest, huh?”

So Varric arranged the funeral, taking care of things as Varrics do, and Hawke pulled out the dress her mother had commissioned (black and red and so obviously for her). She left the lacings undone until Orana came to tie them up, each cinch pushing her forward and bringing with it a new thought. Angry that she couldn’t go to Bethany, that Mother had to be buried here with the people she’d so long run from.

It was all unceremonious, for a ceremony. A few people who claimed to be acquainted with the Amells turned out and cried behind their handkerchiefs for show. She didn't recognise any of them. Hawke didn't cry, though she did almost hit someone; a small-nosed, sharp-eyed man who said something like, _At least your mother came around. She can be buried in a proper Chantry with the right people now._ She was surprised Aveline had time to grab her shoulders and push her back down, but the woman always seemed to have a sixth sense for when Hawke was about to make her life more difficult.

It didn't stop her from sorting through her invitations that night to find the man’s name on one. She briefly considered petty revenge. It wouldn't take much to convince Varric and Isabela, she knew.

In the end, she threw it into the fireplace downstairs, on top of her burning dress.

* * *

The first time Hawke accepted an invitation hadn't been intentional.

She had taken a grubby teenager’s request on faith, that had been her first mistake. She could already hear Varric’s future underhanded, backhanded, and every other free handed comments about not letting him look into the kid.

 _Research_ , _Hawke, the foundation of a good book, and of you and me not getting played six ways to Sunday._

Her second mistake had been letting Merrill go through the door first, loud and so unlike a rogue.

So when Varric and she barreled through the door together after the elf, and _not_ into the battle they were expecting but into a room full of well-dressed Hightown nobles, Hawke couldn't very well _sneak back down_ through the basement and into the pits of Darktown.

“Champion, you made it!”

Especially not when the host of the party (and her familiar looking, if far less grubby, teenage son) greeted Hawke from the top of a large set of stairs

Polite, if confused, clapping spread across the room. Apparently seeing the Champion in her armour at a gathering of Hightown nobles was more of a eccentricity than a violation of some societal rule.

“They think you're _quirky_ ,” Varric explained when they managed to slink their way to the food. “You’re not a part of their club, Hawke, just rich enough to afford a ticket to the circus. Until you massively fuck something up, everything strange you do will be delightful.”

“Joke’s on them,” Hawke raised a brow, leaning against the table with both dangerous, steel elbows. “I fuck up _all the time._ ”

“And it’s _delightful_ ,” Varric assured her, in much the same tone. More seriously he continued, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Absolutely not,” Hawke groped behind her to grab a handful of shrimp. “I respect this...Serah Drever, for being the first person to _trick me_ into coming.”

“Claims to be descended from Cade Arvale, Champion of Tantervale, on her mother's side.” Varric reached up to pluck a shrimp from her hand. “If that means anything.”

“Means she knows her genealogy better than I do. Not much else.” Hawke’s sight focused at a group of well-dressed men and women in a circle at the bottom of the stairs. “Merrill looks like shes having fun.”

Varric followed the direction of her gaze and smiled. “Guess that training as First had to pay off sometime.”

Behind the swell of people, the music in the room grew louder into something Hawke would call  _jaunty_ , even by her standards. She made brief eye contact with Varric,  stolen shrimp between thumb and forefinger and a nervous expression equal to her own, before making her way around the table, away from the crowd.

The first door she happened upon was a sitting room of sorts, with a low fire and two impressively tall bookcases. Away from all the people she could take a breath and admit a part of her was still holding on to the last vestiges of her adrenaline. In this room, at least, there wasn't much to assail the senses. The quiet and the smell of paper, oil, and something lightly fragrant.

She passed the chaise and chairs to the open balcony doors on the other side of the room, forearms and the bulk of her weight perched against the railing. Varric joined her a moment later; shrimpless, she noted despondently.

“We can stay until Merrill’s done dancing.” She turned her head to where she could still hear the low strains of music drifting through the door. Her eyes caught on the books, lit by firelight. “I like this part of the house. It smells like your room.”  


Varric took a deep breath and smiled a little crookedly. “It does,”  he leaned next to her, elbow bumping hers. “I smell like me too.”

“I guess you can stay.”

* * *

Hawke recounted the tale to Isabela and Fenris over a game of cards the following week, holed up in Varric’s suite above the Hanged Man while he and Aveline took care of some business with the City.

“I can’t believe Merrill danced so well,” Hawke admitted, giving up and pushing her chips to Isabela’s side of the table in grim defeat. “Walking she seems to have two left feet.”

“Ah, but she's a _snake_ in battle,” Isabela dragged the tokens toward herself with twitching fingers and an appropriately winning grin. “How did you and Varric fare?”

“I didn't bother,” Hawke stood to warm her hands by the fire. They would be getting into the winter months soon. “I was prepared for a battle, not a ball, and I never learned all of those dances.”

“Leandra never taught you?” Isabela ventured slowly. It had been months, and Hawke was feeling...something about her mother’s death, but she wasn’t talking to any of them about it and they seemed to understand.

“Oh she tried!” Hawke laughed, throwing her hands up. “Not to besmirch her good reputation, but Mother and myself did not fair teacher and pupil make.”

“I’d be happy to teach you,” Fenris glanced over his shoulder to offer.

“You know how to dance?” Isabela looked delighted at the thought. Hawke was equally surprised, but thought (hoped) she hid it better.

Fenris stood and pushed in his chair. “I had to learn in Tevinter.”

“Fenris, you don't have to teach me anything like that.” Hawke said, feeling her excitement plummet even as he ignored her and stepped closer. “I don't even like dancing.”

“Am I giving you the impression that I’m being forced to do this?” He placed her hands at what she assumed to be the correct positions at his shoulder and wrist. “Now just follow my steps.”

“This isn't nearly as fun as they make it look,” Hawke said after a few stilted steps between the table and the alcove where Varric’s bedchambers lay.

Fenris laughed. “Perhaps with a different partner?”

Isabela stole upon them from behind Hawke, looping her arms between the pair and turning her about face to sweep around the table, faster than Hawke could keep up. They tripped over one another, attempted to keep their balance and failed, falling into a tangled heap in front of the fire. Hawke closed her eyes, comfortable in the low heat. A moment later Ser hopped from his spot on the bed in the corner and padded over, settling himself on her stomach

“A shorter partner, I think,” Isabela chuckled.

Hawke opened one eye, watching Fenris slowly lower himself to sit on Isabela’s other side. “Do you think Varric knows how to dance?”

“If you asked him, he’d fly, pet.” Isabela’s tone was mocking, but her fond expression betrayed her. “The better question is why this is still on your mind.”

“We were just talking about it, that's all.” Hawke sat with a laugh dislodging Ser. He huffed onto her thigh, burrowing back down when she pulled the scruff of his neck playfully. Isabela gave her a searching look until she relented. “How am I so different from the people inviting me to these ridiculous parties?”

Fenris snorted. “You’re cunning, you’re good with weapons, you’re...mostly kind. From where I stand, the last alone puts you leagues above most of Hightown.”

“I used to be able to criticise them, when I didn’t have what they have. But now,” she motioned towards the table where her pile of coins lay. “I have money, a reputation. How am I any better than the people I used to rail against for sending their children to the Circle? Bethany’s in the Circle _right now_ , and I’m here wringing my hands. Learning how to dance.”

Ser raised his head, lazy eyes blinking at her before shoving his massive head into her chest.

“I think,” Isabela started slowly, “Bethany would want you to see this as the opportunity as it truly presents itself to be.”

“I'm listening,” Hawke said, chin tilted down and voice muffled by Ser’s fur.

“You’re learning to dance, why not enjoy yourself.” In her hands, Isabela held an invitation, though where she'd grabbed it, Hawke had no idea. “Kick up a fuss?”

Hawke wriggled her other arm free from under the snuffling Mabari on her chest and took the invitation. _Varric, House Tethras_ , it read. “Hm.”

Fenris laid a hand on her wrist, “You’re not like them.”

“No,” Hawke grinned, mind a little clearer. “I’m really _not_.”

* * *

“I'm gone for fifteen minutes and Hawke turns my room into a den of iniquity.” Varric shrugged, closing the door behind him. “Well, I knew the risks.”

“Welcome back,” Hawke sat, rubbing sleep from her eyes and smiling across the room. She extracted herself from the snoring pile that was Isabela and Ser.

“Who won?” Varric pulled out the chair at his desk, motioning to the unfinished pole game on the table in the middle of the room.

“Me, if Isabela drank enough.”

“Keep dreaming, sweetheart.” Varric tilted his head back for a kiss; a light touch of lips that stretched into a smile and held his attention long enough to flatter.

“Fenris taught me to dance,” Hawke said when she pulled away. “Sort of.”

“Didn't know that was an area you needed to improve.”

She leaned against his desk, facing him. “Varric, I know you just assume I excel at everything I set my mind to--”

“Not true, I remember your disastrous attempt with Bianca.”

“One, she's an incredibly particular crossbow.” Varric looked overly satisfied at the statement, nodding at Blanca’s where she lay in the corner, polished and unwieldy as ever Hawke was sure. “Two, and more to the point, dancing was never my forte. Bethany...and Carver,” she managed the last around a swallow. “They took to learning very well.”

“I’ll bet Sunshine would have had the time of her life.” Varric said, wrapping his fingers around her elbow in a loose hold to tug her closer. “Even I had a surprisingly good time.”

“So did I,” she knelt by the chairs, arms crossing her arms on the desk to support her chin.  “Then again I did what I do at every function.” He raised his brows, prompting her to continue. “Eat all the food and sneak off with you to find something more fun to do.”

He laughed through his nose, pulling a few pieces of paper from the corner of his desk towards him. She stayed silent, watching him forge Aveline’s signature once, twice, three times, near perfectly before interrupting.

“In your next letter to Bethany can you tell her about the party?”

“Would you like me to leave out the bit where you practised your knife throwing on Serah Drever’s son?”

“What!” Hawke reared back, mock-offended. “No, keep that in! She knows what I’m like after a few rounds. Besides, he deserved it.”

“I’m pretty sure he shit his pants.” Varric threw his head back to laugh. From the bed, Isabela snuffled and turned to face away from them. “Oops.”

“Could you also…,” Hawke said after a few quiet moments, the conversation with Isabela relatively fresh in her mind. “Ask her what kind of dress she'd like to wear, If she could?”

Varric’s pen paused on the paper mid-signature and Hawke found her eye pressed half-closed as he kissed the top of her cheekbone. “‘Course, Hawke.”

* * *

So the second time Hawke set her mind to a Hightown ball, she _chose_ to go...because Bethany would have loved to, and she no longer could. The dress Varric commissioned was deep blue with white and buttery yellow Orlesian silks. In the end, Hawke couldn't bring herself to wear it the day of the party (some paltry celebration to lift spirits in the wake of the Qunari threat). But if Varric was right about the newness of her position, it was only doubled when she showed up with Isabela on her arm.

Whispers circled the room, underscoring every conversation. _Isn’t she...? The nerve! That Rivaini pirate, is the who…!_ Hawke fought down a smile.

“What am I doing here?”

“Does the theming make you uncomfortable?” Hawke grinned at her widely but Isabela remained unfazed. “You’re the one who talked me into this.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Then I'd like my money back for the poker game that night as well, if your memory is so shoddy.”

“But wouldn’t Varric--”

“Like to finish his book, as he has a very short window for his deadline? Yes, he would!” Hawke finished, leading Isabela by the elbow across the room. “Shut up and appreciate the free food.”

“...they're gawking.”

“You love people gawking at you.”

“Not for free,” Isabela countered.

“So make them pay.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s Hightown, what's the worst that could happen?”

* * *

Aveline paced back and forth between Varric’s desk and the table, where Hawke sat. “I can’t believe it! Petty theft! At a party you willingly went to, _oh that should have been my first clue_!”

“I can’t believe they didn’t notice. Honestly, jewels right off their necks, some of them.” At Aveline’s look, Hawke threw her hands up. “We gave them back!”

“For a _security fee_!” Aveline was going red across her cheeks, all the way up to her hairline. Clearly seeing Hawke as a losing battle, she whipped around to Varric, seated at his desk and trying desperately to finish his novel. “Well?”

“She _was_ providing a service,” he pointed out without looking up. “They’ll be more attentive from now on and that’s a lesson money can’t buy...but seventy gold a head isn’t a bad offer.”

“I don’t know why I even asked you for help.”

Varric laughed. “Neither do I.”

“Written apologies! From both of you!”

“What did I do?” Varric finally looked up, voiced pitched to a whine.

“ _Isabela and Hawke,_ you clod!” Aveline hissed, stomping towards the door. “On second thought, you too! For _enabling_!”

Aveline slammed the door behind her, leaving both to stare at its rattling frame until it stilled. Hawke laughed first.

“She was _so mad_ ,” she said through her tears of mirth.

“How many people paid you?”

“Too many,” Hawke admitted, making her way to Varric’s desk. It’d been a good few minutes since she’d bothered him. “I started feeling bad, honestly.”

There was a stack of invitations addressed to Varric, similar to her own in Hightown, and she assumed that must have been where Isabela had drawn hers from before. Since then, Hawke had kept an eye open for them. Most, she found in his wastebasket. Today was no different in that regard, but there was a new one not yet relegated to the trash, sitting neatly atop the pile at the end of the desk she knew he’d elected to ignore. “Why do _you_ never go to these Varric? I think I've been to more than you in the past year.”

Varric flicked his eyes up at Hawke with what she knew to be his, ‘you-have-one-second’ expression, and lowered his glasses slightly to peer at the envelope in her hands. “Merchant Guild,” he explained, tilting his chin down again. “You know how I feel about them, and frankly so do they. Don’t know why they keep inviting me."

“You still have clout.” The face he made to the desk read, to her, as _obviously_. “I'm more surprised you can keep so much without showing your face now and again.”

“I do. In different ways.”

She opened the invitation, reading through it in full. “This this one seems... _terse_.”

He put his quill down with a sigh and took the invitation from her. Clearly she had driven him to distraction (Point: Hawke). “Hm, yeah. Probably pissed I went to someone else's party before theirs. Or at least they have to make a show of being pissed about it.”

“Oops,” Hawke waved a hand, tone not remorseful in the least.

“I'll probably have to accept at least this one,” he leaned back and considered her with a raised brow. “Wanna come piss off some old sunblind dwarves?”

“Varric,” she leaned forward into his space. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

So the third party Hawke attended in Hightown, she actually found herself excited for. This time she picked a dress for herself, comfortable and a deep purple that made her eyes shine even brighter.

After Varric called her ‘Somehow even more beautiful’ and they did, indeed, piss off some very old dwarves, they delighted in the additional feature of Hawke’s dress that was _easily removable._

* * *

Hawke put on the dress again to visit Leandra’s grave. She felt like her mother would appreciate it.

There were the normal sisters in the Chantry; slightly comforting in their familiarity, slightly uncomfortable in that Hawke felt immediately judged by them. There, too, was a familiar man, and before Hawke could flip through the rolodex of people at the few parties she’d attended he called to her.

“Serah Hawke!” The voice wasn’t familiar. “Ah, Champion now, isn’t it? I’m afraid you must have lost the invitation to my party otherwise I would have introduced myself. Messere Kymus.”

She remembered him now. Aveline’s hand on her shoulder, and a burning dress.

She stared at his hand, clearly awaiting her own. “Is it...proper to address oneself as Messere?” Hawke held her own hands resolutely by her sides. “Only, I haven’t been in Hightown long, as you know,”

“Of course, of course!” Kymus waved a hand, seemingly brushing aside the slight. “When one is speaking to, ah…,” he caught himself, unsure of what to say.

“Their lessers?” She prompted.

“Just so,” Kymus looked relieved. “I wasn’t sure if you would take offense, Serah.”

“Why would I?” She crossed her arms behind her back, rocking forward on her heels. “If you’re only stating facts.”

He laughed, clearly nervous. She backed up with a smile.

“Good day, _Messere_.”

That night, she went through the familiar stack--and growing since titled ‘Champion’--scanning for the name _Kymus_. If she assumed he was the sort to be insulted enough not to try again, she’d have been proven wrong. There were two of his name, the latest happening the following evening. She entertained the notion of inviting Anders to that one, chuckling to herself at image. Since she had started going to these things, accidentally or otherwise, he’d been her ‘break glass in case of emergency’. Her _wild card_.

Then she had a better idea.

As the sun rose, fingers covered with ink, Hawke threw open the door to Varric’s suite with a manic flourish.

“Varric? We’re throwing a party.”

* * *

“The Bone Pit?” Varric swatted away a fly, drink balanced precariously in his other hand. “I know you want to teach this guy a lesson, but you couldn’t have picked somewhere less likely to get your party guests murdered?”

To be fair, Hawke could think think of several more dangerous spots inside the gates of Kirkwall alone.

“There was only one dragon here, and we killed it,” Hawke pointed out, then literally pointed to the bones in question. Several well-dressed men and women gathered near the tail. “See? Aesthetic, Varric. The nobles love it.”

“I’m just surprised you could get catering out here.”

“Catering was a breeze,” Hawke kicked at the ground. “Dancing may prove an issue…”

“Serah Hawke!”

Hawke knew who it was, taking Varric’s drink and calling back as she turned. “ _Messere_ Kymus!”

“When you said out of doors I thought…,” his face became oddly round and wrinkled for someone so sharp featured.

“Feel the breeze, Kymus,” Varric slapped the man’s back, overly familiar. “The others are having a grand time.”

“I…,” Kymus made his face smile as well as he could, walking a wide path around the pit, kicking up dust behind him that clung to his very nice robes.

“So, what’s the plan?” Varric rubbed his hands together.

“This is it.” Hawke took a sip of Varric’s wine.

“Seriously?”

“I’m in a lot of trouble with Aveline, right now.” Hawke rubbed the back of her neck. She pointed to a small waiter tailing Kymus at a short distance. “I’ve paid _that_ man to follow him around and put...well... _shit_ in his path. And the caterer has worked for him several times, happily agreed to make all of his food a little special tonight.”

“Unusually prepared. I’m not unhappy about it.”

“Mostly I just wanted to show him how small he was.” Hawke smiled against the rim of the glass. “If you take a run at him, I won’t stop you.”

“No, no,” he waved his hands. “This is your special night. Let’s enjoy it.”

* * *

They heard the scream halfway through their attempt at a waltz.

“I thought you said it was just the one dragon, Hawke…,” Varric pulled away from her, making a beeline for Bianca.

Hawke climbed on top of the drinks table, shattering a bowl of crystal upon the earth with a crash. “I find I’m often wrong, love, that’s why you’re here!”

“And to a longer life may my sensibility carry you.”

Hawke cupped her hand around a smile and shouted. “Everyone, I want you to stay calm and hide behind the very _large_ dragon, if you don’t mind!”

“You brought us out here to die!” Kymus lost his reason very quickly, Hawke was not surprised to find.

“I brought you out here to dance, Serah, but I can let you dance for the baby dragons if you’d rather.” Kymus stepped back, mouth shut tightly. “No? Alright then. Varric, with me.”

“Right behind you.”

They found one of Hubert’s workers--her worker, she reckoned--still alive, arm bleeding and struggling to stand, Across from him was a small, pink, baby dragon, clawing at the air. Hawke looked around, startled to see only the one.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop working here?” She kicked the worker’s back, sending him stumbling towards the mouth of the cave. “Go on, get out of here.”

“How money stupid do you have to be to go after a dragon?” Hawke shook her head. Varric gave her a look that spoke volumes. “Oh come on, this one’s just a baby.”

“Exactly. The one _you_ fought could have _actually_ killed you, idiot.”

Hawke took a tentative step towards the dragon. It lunged forward and winced. Clearly the man had gotten in a jab of his own. “Aw,” she said, definitely under her breath, most assuredly so Varric could not hear. Equally she did not turn pleading eyes upon him, but her normal questioning look, whenever she sought his sage advice.  

He crossed his arms, not buying any of it. “Hawke, that baby dragon’s going to grow up to be a big dragon.”

“So…,” Hawke stared at it again, hissing and spitting blood up at her. Internally, she cooed. “No more parties at the Bone Pit, huh?”

Varric rolled his eyes.

“Here, kiddo,” she held out the worker’s pickaxe. “Spit on this for me and we’ll get out of your hair.”

* * *

None of the nobles were waiting behind the dragon, having chosen, instead to gather around the mouth of the cave behind Hubert’s worker, his arm now wrapping in a bulky mish mash of linens.

Idiots.

Hawke pushed past them, throwing her pickaxe across the hors d'oeuvres.

“Champion…” Kymus was the first to step away from the crowd. “For your service to Kirkwall and its people, once again, I thank you.”

“I don’t know what your angle is,” Hawke reached over the table and under for a crate of drinks she had stashed. “Frankly, I’m too tired of all this to care.”

“Excuse me.”

“This,” she lifted the hem of her dress. “I’ve tried having fun with it, but mostly you’re all kind of boring. You’ve got no perspective, that’s the issue.”

“Amen.” She heard a voice, absolutely Varric’s, shout from the middle of the crowd.

“Now! For my preferred perspective, that is to say, laying on the ground looking skyward...,” She went back to the crate, slamming it down on the table, disturbing the food and the bloodied pickaxe. “Who wants some Dust Town Dog?”

Unsurprisingly, many of the nobles left, insulted. More surprisingly were the few who stayed (Hawke recognized some who had been prodding at the dragon earlier). _Most_ surprisingly, Kymus drank an entire bottle of Dust Town Dog without questioning its contents.

“Come on, Messere Kymus, more like _cry to your mum..._ us! _Chug_!”

Kymus dropped the finished bottle and slapped Hawke’s hands away. “I said I’m _doing_ _it_ , Champ,” he hiccuped into his hand and giggled, refusing to finish the rest of the word.

“He’s much preferable drunk,” Hawke slid to sit next to Varric, her own bottle bouncing between their feet.

“Even more so when he passes out,” Varric groused. “Andraste’s tits, he’s loud.”

“I know I said I didn’t care, but between you and me, I really liked this dress.” Hawke fanned out the torn gown with a noise of disappointment. “S’pose it was bound to get dirty sooner or later.”

Varric opened his mouth, and abruptly shut it. Hawke slowly, but vividly, remembered the last party she had gone to in this dress, and the night following, and threw her head back in a full belly laugh.

Varric reached up to brush away what might be dirt or more blood with a chuckle. “There she is.”

“I didn’t go anywhere.” Hawke leaned her cheek into his hand, feeling supremely relaxed.

“Maybe not,” he said. “Nice to have you back anyway.”

“Hm, this feels familiar.” Hawke edged closer, leaning down until she was practically curled in his lap.

“Dust Town Dog,” Varric picked up the bottle from between them and took a deep swig. “The connective tissue on a path towards better times.”

Hawke kissed the bottom of his chin, watching his lips play up into a smile. “And always with you.”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world, Hawke.”


End file.
